The Incredible Theft: A Hercule Poirot Short Story

As they approached the far end of the terrace for the fifth time, Lord Mayfield said with a sigh:

‘Oh, well, I suppose we’d better get down to it.’

‘Yes, good bit of work to get through.’

The two men turned, and Lord Mayfield uttered a surprised ejaculation.

‘Hallo! See that?’

‘See what?’ asked Sir George.

‘Thought I saw someone slip across the terrace from my study window.’

‘Nonsense, old boy. I didn’t see anything.’

‘Well, I did – or I thought I did.’

‘Your eyes are playing tricks on you. I was looking straight down the terrace, and I’d have seen anything there was to be seen. There’s precious little I don’t see – even if I do have to hold a newspaper at arm’s length.’

Lord Mayfield chuckled.

‘I can put one over on you there, George. I read easily without glasses.’

‘But you can’t always distinguish the fellow on the other side of the House. Or is that eyeglass of yours sheer intimidation?’

Laughing, the two men entered Lord Mayfield’s study, the french window of which was open.

Mr Carlile was busy arranging some papers in a file by the safe.

He looked up as they entered.

‘Ha, Carlile, everything ready?’

‘Yes, Lord Mayfield, all the papers are on your desk.’

The desk in question was a big important-looking writing-table of mahogany set across a corner by the window. Lord Mayfield went over to it, and began sorting through the various documents laid out.

‘Lovely night now,’ said Sir George.

Mr Carlile agreed.

‘Yes, indeed. Remarkable the way it’s cleared up after the rain.’

Putting away his file, Mr Carlile asked:

‘Will you want me any more tonight, Lord Mayfield?’

‘No, I don’t think so, Carlile. I’ll put all these away myself. We shall probably be late. You’d better turn in.’

‘Thank you. Goodnight, Lord Mayfield. Goodnight, Sir George.’

‘Goodnight, Carlile.’

As the secretary was about to leave the room, Lord Mayfield said sharply:

‘Just a minute, Carlile. You’ve forgotten the most important of the lot.’

‘I beg your pardon, Lord Mayfield.’

‘The actual plans of the bomber, man.’

The secretary stared.

‘They’re right on the top, sir.’

‘They’re nothing of the sort.’

‘But I’ve just put them there.’

‘Look for yourself, man.’

With a bewildered expression, the young man came forward and joined Lord Mayfield at the desk.

Somewhat impatiently the Minister indicated the pile of papers. Carlile sorted through them, his expression of bewilderment growing.

‘You see, they’re not there.’

The secretary stammered:

‘But – but it’s incredible. I laid them there not three minutes ago.’

Lord Mayfield said good-humouredly:

‘You must have made a mistake, they must be still in the safe.’

‘I don’t see how – I know I put them there!’

Lord Mayfield brushed past him to the open safe. Sir George joined them. A very few minutes sufficed to show that the plans of the bomber were not there.

Dazed and unbelieving, the three men returned to the desk and once more turned over the papers.

‘My God!’ said Mayfield. ‘They’re gone!’

Mr Carlile cried:

‘But it’s impossible!’

‘Who’s been in this room?’ snapped out the Minister.